


One-Track Mind

by andwhatyousaid



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), excerpt, implied confessions, when u read thru ur not-ex's phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/pseuds/andwhatyousaid
Summary: In a caught moment before sound check: Patrick thought it would help to know, but it doesn't help at all.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49





	One-Track Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This is a writing doodle; wholly the product of meaning to work on an entirely differently project. Instead: posting this because wine not. Anyway, this takes places very soon after their hiatus ends. Definitely in-part inspired by Pete Wentz saying in some interview that "Miss Missing You" was one of the harder songs off Save Rock And Roll to write because it had to be organic and couldn't be forced, "at least lyrically."
> 
> I'd argue vaguely dubious consent for going through someone else's phone without permission, but given that Pete and Patrick describe themselves as one, singular member of the band and have self-proclaimed cryptophasia, I am not so sure. Reads like an excerpt of something longer, and, perhaps, one day I will do more with this kernel. Until then: thank you very much to anyone who reads this.
> 
> Major shout-out to [Datzialltho](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Datzialltho) for graciously indulging me at all hours of the day, regardless of how pestering I am. Title from "Walk Across the Water" by the Black Keys. Alternate title: Unsent Texts from Your Not-Ex. Standard disclaimer applies: this is 100% not real.

They’re already running late to sound check, but Patrick stills just outside the tour bus. “Oh,” he says, surprised by stepping right into the sudden, dry heat. “Shit, I forgot my shades.”

L.A. seems to be clinging onto to summer with every fiber of its being: refusing to let the heat go, even in late September; Patrick forgets that it’s a desert more than anything.

“What?” says Pete, steps ahead, twisting in the sunlight to look back at him. Patrick’s immediately jealous of Pete not having have to squint in the bright sun, his own pair of Ray Bans and his watch catching in the light and gleaming, his sleeveless tee soft and falling away just a bit from him as a fleeting breeze brushes by, getting under the fabric and lifting it, touching the back of Patrick’s neck like cool fingers, there and then gone. 

Patrick nods his head back at their shared bus. “Meet you there,” he says, swallowing, forcing himself to turn away from the sight and climb right back up the stairs. “I’m sure Andy and Joe are ready to go. I’ll be quick.”

“Nah, man,” says Pete, a tinge of a bemused smile at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “I’ll wait. Actually, hey, I left my phone — will you grab it?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Patrick distractedly, opening the door and climbing inside. 

Their bus became a mess the second they both got onto it: pairs of Pete’s shoes and his shirts and pullover sweatshirts are everywhere already, on the floor of the narrow passageway between their bunks and hanging over the backs of the small chairs in the cramped kitchenette, though it isn’t just him; Patrick picks through his socks and an open bag on the couch, and then searches through his bunk, lifting up the chord for his laptop and an extra phone charger until he finally finds his shades, fallen to the side of his bunk by his pillow. 

He’s grateful he didn’t crush them in his sleep, feeling the fragility of the lenses while cleaning them on the end of his shirt, and then tucks them into the collar of his button-down to keep them safe. On his way to the front of the bus, he spots Pete’s phone with its ridiculously sparkly, glittery slim case on the counter by the coffee-maker, and makes a triumphant noise as he picks it up. 

When he turns the phone over onto its face, he doesn’t mean to look, exactly, but the screen lights-up with an incoming message, a notification blinking to life at the top, and Patrick gets distracted by the lock-screen: a photo he doesn’t remember taking with Pete; it’s of the two of them from behind, standing in decomposed granite or dirt overlooking an expansive, sprawling view of L.A., all of it laid bare in the open, hot sun, a day like it is today, the hills curling downwards in an aimless spiral, spattered with lounging pools attached to remodeled 1920s homes and greenery before a few skyscrapers burst up, odd and out of place, closer to the epicenter. Pete and him aren’t even touching each other in the photo, but near enough to; their shoulders are almost brushing, their bare elbows nearly meeting as they lean, just slightly, into one another’s space. Patrick’s pointing to something out in the distance, he can’t recall now, and Pete appears to be following his gaze, the shaved side of his head looking smooth and soft, even from here. It must've been taken from just days ago.

Then he takes in the notification: the beginning portion of a text from Andy that reads: _ Honestly? You never know until you try, man. It’s been years…_. Which is — not what Patrick expected to see; no mention of running late to soundcheck or asking where they are; and it makes Patrick’s chest thump oddly, reading it over and over, his eyes scanning frantically across the screen, his thumb hesitating over the home button. 

Patrick jerks a glance at the closed and still bus door, and he knows — it’s a complete violation of Pete’s trust and privacy and — a perverse use of knowing Pete’s passcode at all, but. Patrick shuts his eyes and swallows thickly. Maybe Pete won’t have to know, and this way, Patrick can just — finally, finally get some kind of an answer without gut-churning risk. Maybe it won’t even be what he thinks, but it’ll put him out of his misery. 

He types in the code (2001) quickly, his fingers sliding across the screen, trying not to get the sweat sprouting from his palms onto it; it clears in a flourish, and then Patrick’s staring not at the thread of Pete’s text messages, but an open page in Notes that must’ve been up from the last time Pete was on his phone and didn't bother or forgot to close. Its title is unmistakable in bold letters: _unsent texts to my (not) ex: dear p _, and below that — below that, Patrick finds:

_ have you ever loved me/have you ever stopped loving me _

_ you must know that every song is about you _

_ i’ve ripped my heart out of my chest with my bare hands and given it to you while it was still beating and i don’t think you even noticed, not even with all the blood and guts attached _

_ you don’t know me anymore _

_ i miss you _

_ i haven’t missed you yet _

_ i know we never broke up but i’m pretty sure we did _

The phone is hot and electric in Patrick’s hand like he’s holding a live wire, text appearing and disappearing before his eyes like he’s popping in and out of dreams; he can’t seem to stop scrolling until he reaches the bottom where Pete must’ve written or read (again) this morning over his cup of coffee that Patrick had witnessed him sipping by window:

_ you’re like an albatross i have to cut off my neck and drown with my bare hands _

_ this is fucking killing me, having you but not _

_ it isn’t enough _

There’s a sharp noise that rings in Patrick’s ears like an alarm going off, and he jerks, almost drops the phone — forgot he was holding it, forgot he was standing in the vacant kitchenette, late for sound check. He touches his face to feel real again, ground himself. 

Pete must’ve come through the door, that must’ve been the noise: he’s standing there at the threshold, but he can’t know what Patrick’s just seen because Pete’s face is handsome and whole and smiling like he’s waiting for Patrick to catch on to his joke. But Patrick doesn’t know what the joke was; there’s no joke here. 

The humor drops a little from Pete’s face the longer Patrick stands there, and Pete says, cautious, “What happened, man? Did you get lost or something on here?” He darts a glance around, as if looking for something out of place. 

“Oh, no,” says Patrick, startling into motion all at once: he thrusts Pete’s phone out for him to take, the case gaudy, contrasting sharply against Patrick’s pale skin. “I found it. Just took a minute.” 

The screen has gone dark now, and Patrick willfully doesn’t look at it while he offers it to Pete, but he can’t quite look Pete in the face either, and then Pete takes it, and their fingers brush, Pete’s index finger dragging for the briefest second against the flat of Patrick’s palm, and Patrick breathes in sharply at the touch without meaning to, choking on it, at the same time that Pete says, “Thanks,” softly. 

“We’re late, right?” Patrick says, breathing out too hard to get the air out of his lungs, forcing a smile that feels stretched thin across his mouth; it makes his eyes feel hot and watery for some reason. The bus seems overly small and suffocating now, the walls narrow like they're standing in the aisle between their two bunks rather than open space.

Pete catches his gaze for a second, holds it — and Patrick has done this hundreds of times, looked over at Pete from across the room, across an aisle, across the stage, across an ocean between them, and every time, they catch each other, just like this, stilling the breath inside Patrick’s chest, as if his body is trying to preserve the moment whole, as if they are looking openly into one another’s minds.

Patrick turns away so that Pete won’t see now, and makes for the front of the bus, his hands shaky as he pushes the door open, like the shot of adrenaline he gets before going out on stage, but he manages to climb down the steps, and hears Pete right behind him, the door slamming shut, following Patrick out, on his heels. 

“So,” Pete says, drawing the word out, as they head towards the venue; it suddenly feels very slow getting there, as if their shoes are inefficient and weighted down against the flat concrete, like trying to run in a dream. Patrick glances nervously towards Pete, but all he says is, “You think Joe is gonna murder us for always being late now or later.” 

Patrick laughs, and it doesn’t feel so forced when he looks at Pete’s beaming smile. 

Then Pete reaches over and grasps Patrick right where his neck meets his shoulder, his thumb tucking under the collar of his shirt and pressing into Patrick’s skin for one, stinging moment. It’s like being dunked into ice-cold water, and Patrick emerges from it back into the sun, hot overhead and hot from Pete’s blinding grin, and Patrick tries not to gasp into the new, fresh air, tries not to say: _ Did you mean that? Or are they just words to you? _

He thought it would help to know, but it hasn’t helped at all.


End file.
